The air in Sonagachi hung heavy with the scent of cheap perfume and despair. In a cramped room, stripped of any comfort, Rangoli Shekhawat, her face a mask of furious defiance, stood before a corpulent woman reeking of paan. "I won't go!" Rangoli's voice, though shaking, held the bite of a 'karela'. The fat woman, unimpressed, yanked Rangoli's hair, a sharp slap echoing in the silence. "You may be the commissioner's daughter, but now you're a tawayaf! Be thankful I haven't made you a prostitute."

Across the country, under a sky glittering with indifferent stars in Rajasthan, another young woman, Rose, sat defeated. Her blue suit seemed to mock the vibrant life it once promised. She was a commodity, her youth and virginity fueling a cruel auction. "Please give me a taste of the juice of this Kali," a man leered. Rasiya Bai, the brothel madam, a woman whose age and vulgarity were etched into her every line, picked up Rose, forcing her to display herself. Rose's eyes, brimming with unshed tears, pleaded silently. These two girls, miles apart, were about to become pawns in a game far grander and more brutal than they could imagine.